Love Story(74)
Author: Jennifer Echols

“He is on the committee,” Hunter said.

“He’s not on the committee,” I insisted. At least, I hoped he wasn’t on the committee. I had assumed he wasn’t, but it would be like Hunter to know something I didn’t know. I stammered, “Only the bigwigs in the English department are—”

“I’m telling you,” Hunter said, “he is on the committee. He’s the head of the committee. He’s won the O. Henry and the Pulitzer.”

“Gabe?” Even as I gaped at Hunter, I realized he must be right. A university English department with this good a reputation wouldn’t hire a washed-up junior college reject to teach honors creative writing. He didn’t dress like a beach bum because he was so low on the totem pole that he could get away with it. He dressed like that because he was so high. I put my shaking hand up to my mouth, speechless for once.

Hunter sat beside me on the chaise. “You’re not the only one with something to lose. If Gabe flunks us, I can kiss med school good-bye. I’ll still be dragging my GPA out of this hole when I’m a senior.”

“You’re being a little melodramatic,” I said faintly.

“Me? You’re the one writing stories about—” He stopped himself. “It doesn’t matter now. Just tell me about Whitfield.” His face was white stone.

“What do you care?” I snapped. “Every single thing you have done to, for, or with me since you’ve been in New York you’ve done because my grandmother paid you. You are not my boyfriend. You are not even my real friend, and it’s none of your business.”

“You made it my business last night,” he insisted.

I looked into his intense blue gaze for a moment. “My story is fiction.”

He scowled at me. “Your name is in it.”

“What? No it isn’t. I wrote it in the third person about a nameless girl.”

“Your name is in it, Erin,” he insisted. “Freudian slip.”

Uh-oh. “I mean, it’s sort of nonfiction,” I backtracked, “but it happened a while ago. Not this weeken—”

He closed his eyes and put up his hand. “Just. Stop. Talking.”

I was about to point out to him that he was the one who’d started talking to me, when I heard quick steps toward us down the hall—too quick to be Gabe. Isabelle jogged up to us and panted, “Erin. Gabe will be here any second. I don’t know what will happen to you or whether I’ll see you again, so I thought it was important to tell you something.”

“Okay,” I said, careful not to stare accusingly at Hunter. This had to be about him.

“I love your stories,” she gushed, bending to put her hand on my forearm. “Love them. I look forward to them every two weeks. I’ve told my whole family about them.”

“Thank you,” I said instead of what I really meant, which was, I don’t believe you. I would have believed you at the beginning of the semester, but not now. This must be a joke. Where is the camera?

“I haven’t defended you in class because Manohar seems so sure of himself,” she said. “He’s hard to argue against and I’ve felt awful that I’ve failed you. But you have inspired me. I didn’t know an English major was allowed to write a story like that.”

“Apparently we’re not. That’s why I’m in trouble.” I patted her hand. “I appreciate this, Isabelle.” Gabe’s white head appeared in the stairwell. I stage-whispered, “I’ll write you stories from prison.”

“Okay!” She laughed like I was joking and passed Gabe on her way back down the hall.

I tensed as he approached us, and I could feel Hunter’s muscles draw taut, too, even though he didn’t touch me. But Gabe was back to his friendly self. He even grinned at us as he unlocked his office door and ushered us into two chairs in front of his cluttered desk.

He grew scarier again as he wedged himself into his chair and leaned on his elbows on his desk. With a stern look at me and then at Hunter, he said, “I do not lose my cool. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” Hunter said. I grimaced and nodded.

“We are going to talk this out so it never comes up in my class again.” Gabe shifted his weight back in his chair and steepled his hands. “So. Hunter. You’re Erin’s stable boy?”

Neither of us wanted to spill our guts or our family secrets to an old man who would probably flunk us both. But when I explained the impetus for my stable-boy story, Hunter had a dissenting opinion. When Hunter defended his bathroom story, I piped up that he wasn’t telling the whole truth. We went round and round like this until Gabe finally said, “I’m from California and I thought those people were screwed up, but Kentucky takes the cake, doesn’t it? You could write a story about this.” He laughed.

Hunter and I did not.

Gabe rubbed one eye. “Which brings us to Erin’s story today, and what happened over the weekend that finally broke Hunter.”

Hunter frowned. He did not like that characterization one bit.

I kicked while Hunter was down. I asked him, “What exactly was your directive from my grandmother?”

I thought he would deny it, even now. But Gabe stared at him expectantly, too, and with a slow look up at Gabe and a slow look down at his hands again, Hunter began to speak.

“I was supposed to get into some of your classes.” He glanced up at Gabe, looked away. “Try to become friends with you again. Become friends with your friends so I could keep tabs on you. Take you out to eat as often as possible so you didn’t starve. Keep you away from any no-good piece of shit who tried to get in your pants.”

“Come on now,” I said. “My grandmother said ‘piece of shit’?”

“She may have said ‘scalawag.’”

That sounded more like her. “Is that all you had to do?”

He shook his head no. “Bring you home for the Breeders’ Cup.”

“Even if that meant lying to get me there?”

“We didn’t discuss methods. I was desperate at that point.” He turned to face me for the first time in an hour. “I’m sorry.”

“Speaking of methods,” I said, “were you supposed to sleep with me?”

His eyes widened, then slid to Gabe and back to me. “No. I mean, I knew already that your grandmother doesn’t think I’m good enough for you. But in case that wasn’t clear, she spelled that out specifically.”

I grinned devilishly—which was only fitting, because I felt like hell. “So, all I have to do is call her—”

“You don’t have a phone.”

“—and tell her we slept together, and you’re as cut off as I am.”

“I already did,” he said.

I gasped audibly. “When?”

“This morning, before my anatomy test.” Sighing, he closed his eyes and put his elbow on the armrest of his chair and his chin in his hand. He had looked tired the past few weeks. Now he looked beaten.

I studied him, this handsome, brilliant young man whose life should not have been so hard.

Remembered him staring at himself in the mirror at my grandmother’s house. At least, that’s what I’d thought at first. I’d taken a few more steps and realized his eyes were closed, perhaps examining himself from inside.